Englishwoman in France (20 page)

Lady Serina turns Tib's face so he's looking directly at her. ‘Dearest Tib,' she says. ‘You are nut-brown as a sailor. And how you have grown.' Tib pulls his face from her hand, but still he looks pleased.

I think she must have missed him sorely, though not, I think, as much as I've missed my Siri. No one could experience that much missing.

Lady Serina turns to Modeste. ‘So, Doctor,' she says, ‘you have taken good care of my son?'

Modeste nods and bows again. ‘And will continue to do so, gracious lady.' He pauses. ‘However I'm concerned about his being summoned to Good Fortune. Dare I ask – is it certain that the Governor will welcome Tib home? Or does he listen to Rome and wish the boy harm?'

She draws in a big breath and sighs a very deep sigh. ‘A pity you should have to think so, Modeste. The truth is, the Governor
is
listening to Rome – or Nicomedia, where the court now sits. News of the work you and Tibery do here has sailed on ships around the Interior Sea as far as Nicomedia; it has travelled the roads of the Empire. Much of the talk is about Tib's gift with those people tormented in their heads. These tales of miraculous cures have drawn the attention of the Emperor.' She lowers her voice. ‘One might wish that were not so.'

Modeste glances across at the seamen and the imperial soldiers that attend the Governor's wife. ‘One might indeed wish that were not so, madam. But the boy has a true gift. Of that there is no doubt.' She nods at him and the two of them move away from us, towards the garden and the beehives, where they're out of earshot. He is talking, making a point with her, and she is frowning.

Then they stroll back and I hear him say, ‘There cannot be one thing without the other, Serina. The true healing comes through him, not from him. You know that.'

His use of her name tells me there is more about these two than mistress and servant: even though he is a Roman citizen, Modeste – as he has told me – is the son of a man who had been a slave to the Romans.

Lady Serina goes up to Tib and takes him by the shoulders. ‘This is a great honour, Tibery. The Empress herself wishes you to attend her at court. It seems the son of her daughter, a great favourite with the Emperor – though alas merely adopted – is sorely afflicted with a terrible
maladie
. The boy has fits. He scratches himself. He tears his clothes. He must be watched day and night. Knives are kept from him lest he harms himself or someone else. There are such benighted children in the world, so this might not seem extraordinary. But for some reason the child has caught the Emperor's fancy.' She glances at Modeste. ‘Some say the child is closer to him than a grandson.' Her voice falls silent.

The silence that follows fills with the morning call of the nightingale.

She goes on. ‘This is the thing, dear Tibery. The Empress commands your presence at Nicomedia and there you will cure this boy for the Emperor's sake. I come here at your father's command. I am his agent. His emissary.' Her tone is grave.

Tib's face lights up in a grin. ‘Of course. I can help the poor boy, just as I help the people here in Gaul. These
maladies
strike fisherman and princes alike . . .'

Modeste interrupts him. ‘There is a condition, Tib. Hear the condition first!'

Serina's full lips tighten. ‘You – both of you – will travel under the Emperor's protection. You will be perfectly safe. However, for your own safety, in your curing you may only invoke the extraordinary powers of the old gods, and the god emperors. There must be no other blessing, no mention of the Nazarene, no sign of the fish.'

I see that she's well informed of Tib's ways of working. It's not only travellers who have told her of her son's powers. Modeste has obviously acquainted her with these events. I see now that he is her agent.
Her
emissary here.

Tib is scowling now. ‘Mother, this is not possible. I heal because I believe. It's only through my belief that the wonders occur.' He glances at Modeste. ‘Oh! I know we make our own cures and they are natural wonders in themselves. But it's only through the spirit of the Nazarene that the impossible occurs.' His tone is firm, mature. I recall Modeste calling him an old soul.

Modeste and Serina exchange glances. Then Modeste shrugs. ‘I think we have little choice in this matter, Tib.' He shows the boy the letter-scroll that Lady Serina has given him. ‘This is a letter signed by the Empress herself, begging you – most politely – to come. Her beloved grandson is in danger and you are her last hope.' He pauses. ‘It seems quite simple and straightforward. But it bears the Imperial seal. To refuse would be to declare yourself a traitor.'

The soldiers at the edge of the path shuffle their feet, short swords clicking against their metalled sheaths. Misou, still clutched by the scruff of his neck by the sailor, squeals again.

Modeste goes on. ‘And there is another message here for me, from your father. He is very plain and direct, as is his custom. He tells me that unless you obey the Empress he will be forced to put you to death. He himself is threatened with death should you not go.'

Lady Serina tightens her grip on Tib's shoulder and whispers in his ear. ‘Listen to me, dearest Tib. There are many here and right across the Empire, even in the heart of Rome, who look to the Nazarene, as do you and Modeste. These are people at all levels, not just rebels and heretics who insist that the Emperor martyrs them for their faith. But there are many good people who are biding their time, which will come, believe me.'

Of course. I know she's talking about herself.

The three of them stand staring at each other in silence. Then the tension is broken by Misou who wriggles out of the sailor's grasp, leaps to the ground and makes for Lady Serina. I scoop him up just in time and hold him struggling to my chest. I can feel Serina's bright blue eyes on me; see a glimmer of a smile around her mouth. ‘So . . . who have we here, Modeste?'

‘This is a new follower, Madam. A traveller who lives with us and helps our mission.'

Her lips twitch. ‘And why, may I ask, have you a woman with you, Modeste? And in such a strange garb?'

He smiles. ‘Madam, this is our friend Florence. We found her by the riverside, very wet and – well – a bit beside herself.'

He's right there. Maybe
outside herself
would have been a better way to put it. He could hardly say I swam into this time through the feast of Pentecost.

‘Tib cured Florence of her sad condition,' he goes on smoothly. ‘And now she helps us and we help her.'

‘Florence is a great person,' butts in Tib. ‘We found her raving by the river and now she's well. She takes care of us and we take care of her.' He echoes Modeste's words. He smiles at his mother. ‘I told her she was beautiful, Mother. Nearly as beautiful as you.' This is a lot for Tib to say at once. He is a boy of few words.

Serina looks me up and down, then nods. ‘I see. Well, I have clothes on the barge that are more suitable for your friend Florence.'

Misou yelps.

The Lady Serina holds my gaze. ‘Woman of Gaul! Will you go to Nicomedia with these two recalcitrants? Will you continue to care for them on this journey?'

Woman of Gaul?
Is that what I am? I glance across at them. Tib looks young again, quite anxious. Modeste watches me calmly. I think he knows my answer. Where else would I go?

I meet her gaze again. There is something about this woman. Something about her look. Something familiar. I scrabble in vain at the cobwebs in my mind. Misou, struggling in my arms, leaps into hers. She holds him tight and laughs out loud. ‘What's this?'

‘It's a dog,' says Tib, who frequently has a tendency to be over literal.

Misou is wriggling with joy, trying to lick the lady's plump cheek.

Modeste says quietly, ‘Misou recognizes you, my lady. He recognizes you as his friend.'

The cobwebs in my head clear. I look again at this tall, plump, well-fed woman and am reminded of Misou's mistress, a much slighter, smaller and older woman, who sat and talked with me in a café. Somewhere . . .

Misou is quiet now, his head on her bosom. She is stroking him and peering into his eyes. ‘It is good to have a friend,' she says.

‘He's called Misou,' announces Tib. ‘You should keep him.' He turns those eyes on me. ‘She should keep him, shouldn't she, Florence?'

I'm used to Misou now. He's my friend. My fellow traveller in this dream wilderness. But I look at him in the arms of this Roman matron and I know he's found his true friend again. He's back with Madame Patrice.

The cobwebs lift, and then fall back again. I glance across at Modeste and he nods slightly, his eyes warning me not to comment. This clearly is his
reinvestment of the spirit
. Whether Serina came before Patrice, or the other way round, is not clear. I'm sure Modeste would say that's not the way to think of it. Time, he would say, is not merely a long measuring stick.

I nod my head and he smiles slightly.

‘I will take care of Misou, Florence. You can be sure of that.' There's this familiar thread, this tone in her voice. Then the cobwebs fall back in place and now I just can't bring to mind the name of the woman in the café.

Then, stroking Misou's silky head, she turns back to Tib. ‘So, will you do this, Tibery? For your father if nothing else?'

Tib looks at Modeste, who raises his eyebrows and keeps his face blank. Then Tib turns to his mother, his gaze just over her shoulder. ‘So I will go. I will go for you and my father; I will go in the name of the Nazarene, and they may make of it what they wish.'

‘But Tib, the risk!' I know the alarm in her voice. I myself should have felt alarmed when I sent Siri merrily away with her friend to play football. But I didn't. My heart clenches.

‘Be calm, lady.' Modeste's voice has a warning in it. Again I see that their relationship is clearly equal, not one of mistress and servant. ‘We will go. We must go. And Florence and I will keep good watch over him. And, as you know . . .' He pauses. And lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘We have friends and comrades in Nicomedia. They are discreet but strong in their faith.'

So, she
is
one of them! I see this now.

She lets out a long sigh and relaxes. Misou escapes her tight grasp and climbs up on to her shoulder, just as he used to with . . .
Madame Patrice
, was that her name? ‘We must go at once,' she says. ‘Your father is waiting.'

Tib shakes his head stubbornly. ‘Modeste and I must make stores of medicine for the people here. We must leave instructions and messages. We must assure them of our return.'

Modeste nods slowly. ‘If we work quickly and tell the good people of Cessero our dilemma they will be our agents and pass on messages. There is quite a network now.' He takes Serina's hand. ‘Return to your barge, lady. We will join you before dusk. If your rowers are as good as their reputation we will be docking at Good Fortune before nightfall. The Governor will have no complaint.'

Lady Serina turns away, then turns back to Modeste. ‘Walk with me to the river, Modeste.'

Tib, already back at the table with his head over his herbs, does not look up when his mother says her farewells. ‘Hurry!' he says to Modeste. ‘There is so little time.'

Later, all our tasks completed, we follow the seamen through the thickets and brambles to the ornate barge and climb aboard by means of a cunning series of ladders. The rowers stand respectfully, their oars held like staffs. The old seaman gives a signal and the sailors pull in the ladders. The rowers move down below, set time, and we are away.

Modeste and Tib move forward and stand by the seaman Peter as he gives the sign to cast away and one of the rowers uses his single great oar to push the boat from the bank. Down below, unseen, the oarsmen easily, carefully, steer to the centre of this great river and start to row and the heavy, ornate barge drives through the river like a swift arrow. Then, eerily, a rhythmic song floats through the porthole gaps that allow the oars to move, keeping time with the splash of the oars. You can't see the rowers but you can hear their growling song as they work.

Lady Serina makes her way to the prow to greet us. She's obviously relieved. Perhaps she really did think we would all run away. Then again perhaps that was the sensible thing to do. She nods to them and turns and nods towards me. ‘Come with me, Florence. My slaves will find you something less disgraceful to wear.'

So here am I standing in the small salon next to the prow of the boat being dressed like a Barbie doll by two elegant girl-children who laugh and giggle as they go about their task and occasionally stand back to admire their handiwork. They hold up a shadowy grey oval mirror glass in a copper frame. I have to admit it's an improvement. They put my hair up in quite tight braids and bleached bone pins and dress me in a simple floor-length tunic in green linen with an embroidered border. Then they set this wide fringed russet scarf around my shoulders and make me sit down while they buckle on supple green leather sandals.

When I go forward again the only comment is from Tib. ‘Your hair! They've spoiled your hair! Where are your curls?'

His mother, standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders, tells him not to be silly. ‘They haven't cut them off, have they?'

‘They've spoiled it,' he says sadly. ‘I like Florence best when she is wild. It's not the same.'

This sad, even sulky tone is unusual for Tib. Perhaps he, like us all, is worried about what is to come. I glance at Modeste whose great quest has now been thwarted. I look at the Lady Serina standing there, swaying slightly with the movement of the barge. Misou is coiled around her neck and her hands are on the shoulders of her son, the fringe on her shawl lifting in the breeze created by the forward thrust of the barge. Does she know about Modeste's quest? Is she his mysterious patroness?